


Apple Pie

by Vanilla_Ella



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Age Difference, Angst, Anxiety Attacks, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff, Gen, M/M, No Avengers AU, Obsession, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, also Bucky is an angel, just normal steve with the ptsd
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-09
Updated: 2019-02-23
Packaged: 2019-10-25 03:58:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17717633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vanilla_Ella/pseuds/Vanilla_Ella
Summary: Steve Rogers’ life is the epitome of mundane routine.From the time he wakes up, 6:30, to the time his head hits the pillow, 22:30, it’s the same repetitive cycle; every movement, every action is painted in the same lackluster gray, a straight line with no highs or lows.If you asked him, he might even say it was by design; it was inevitable he’d eventually lose all color in his life, doomed to seeing the gray and white spectrum of paper, tasteless food, spotless walls.The last time he’d felt something, a burst of color, was at eighteen.He hadn’t felt anything since.(or the one where bucky is a young baker who helps veteran steve learn how to feel again.)





	1. chapter øne

The screen is bleary, burning into his eyes with its sterile, blinding white.

Working a desk job, twenty nine, with just enough effort for his boss to keep him on and to keep his mind from melting into the further bland, mushy state that it was slowly on its way to, he feels himself letting go of the little strands of his remaining sanity, slowly, one by one, a thread each day.

17:00 can’t come fast enough, and when it does, he’s quickly packing up his papers and the small Tupperware of last night’s pasta he hadn’t been able to bring himself to eat during lunch break.

He walks out of the pristine fifty story building, right out into the heart of Brooklyn, 17:15. 

He’s walking down the sidewalk, clusters of individuals surrounding him, bumping into him, barely missing his midnight dress-shoes when they stomp on the cement as if they own it. 

It used to bother him, get on his hothead nerves to the point of him nearly pushing them back, like the passive aggressive little fireball he used to be.

That was before the army, of course. 

Now he just lets them push, shove him like the piece of unthinking meat he is now; it’s not the worst thing that’s happened to him, anyway. 

He’s walking at his usual unhurried pace to catch the 17:30 underground subway, just like he always does after work. 

Routine, routine, routine.

Until it’s not.

It’s when he passes by the shops that he lingers sometimes, his steps becoming even more like molasses. 

But it’s out of his routine to stop by any of them, so he never does. 

There’s still a little spark of curiosity though, dim as it is, never enough to convince him to pause his steps fully but almost so. 

It’s when he passes by a little hole in the wall, a new, bright, open windowed bakery with ribbon writing, that something halts his steps so suddenly a few people bump into him rather violently, spitting a few curses at him. 

Steve couldn’t care less. 

He steps closer to the window, looking into the golden-illuminated bakery. The scent, though faint and combined with the toxic air of New York, is heavenly, painfully familiar. 

His mother’s apple pie. 

It’s all it takes for him to step out of his normal path for the first time in eternity. 

His hands are shaking as he pushes open the glass door, steps somewhat staggering and lingering, as if his body is protesting his venture out of his normal path. 

There are only a couple of people standing in line, students and seniors scattered around the small bakery, seated on the dark mahogany chairs with cups of lattes and plates of delicate pastries. 

Steve’s stomach growls at the sight of the glass display case, filled with seemingly every kind of pastry from A to Z, and the absence of his midday meal makes itself suddenly known, tripling easily with the sight of each individual treat. 

By the time he’s at the end of the line, he finds himself standing opposite of a young, petite woman, soft auburn curls pulled up into a messy bun. Her jade eyes sparkle nearly as brightly as her toothy smile. 

He doesn’t notice the intensity of the colors, however, his world scaled down to a familiar, faded saturation of things.

“Hi,” her tone is upbeat, happy, her slight accent piquing Steve’s interest just the tiniest bit, “what can I get you?” 

“Umm.. hi,” he says quietly, the familiar nervous lump rising in his throat and nearly drowning out his words. He’d hate how his social skills disappeared over the years if it wasn’t a part of his newfound nature he accepted so easily all those years ago. “I’ll have..”

He glances at the case, the sudden pressure of the girl’s wide smile and the people tapping their feet and practically bleeding impatience bleaching his mind of what he’s come for, and despite the presence of its tantalizing scent filling the air and his lungs, he can’t help but feel the blood rising to his cheeks. He just hopes his snow Irish skin doesn’t give him away (it does). “Uhh...”

He’s fives seconds away from just spinning on his feet and all but running out of the place, swearing to never, ever stray out of his usual routine again, before movement out of his left eye catches his attention. 

A boy emerges from the back kitchen. 

The moment Steve sees him, all upper lights in his head seem to shut off, the boy grasping his attention so suddenly and fiercely Steve feels vaguely dizzy, as if he’s plunged into a dream.

He’s all milky skin, youthful softness, cherry lips, and chocolate hair pulled into a small knot at the nape of his long neck.

More importantly, he’s screaming in vivid color, bleeding it all over the black and white canvas that is Steve Roger’s sight, blues and pinks and rich brown and every other color hidden under his skin, around the rims of his sparkling eyes.

Steve doesn’t even notice the apple pie he’d been breathing and lusting after for the past ten minutes clutched in the boy’s delicate hands; suddenly, this boy is the only thing he wants.

They lock eyes and Steve’s lost in the sharpest, frostiest, cloud-blue eyes he’d ever seen in his life.

His lips begin moving, but static’s all that’s bouncing around in Steve’s ears, the mere sight of shocking beauty rendering all other senses useless. 

“—pie,” is the last word the boy mouths, the only word Steve catches, and he nods stupidly, the prospect of refusing nearly nonexistent and the farthest thing from desirable at the moment. At least with the boy saying it.

He smiles wide, and Steve melts.

The girl says something but the boy shakes his head, walking out from behind the counter and placing a hand on Steve’s shoulder.

His touch burns.

Steve’s inwardly having a panic attack, not only the prospect of being touched psyching him out but the fact that he’s literally under the delicate hand of an angel, and he’s sure it shows, if the sudden, worried look washes over the boy’s face.

He says something, but Steve can’t hear it over the ringing, feel it over the warm, barely there touch. 

He doesn’t remember walking over to the corner table, being coaxed into taking a seat by the delicate press of the angel’s hands. The boy lets out a string of blurred words once more before he’s rushing away.

It’s only when he disappears to the back kitchen and out of sight that Steve feels it, so suddenly and deeply, the sense of loss biting through his bones. The words come back, clear conversation ringing in his ears, his senses and surrounding crystal clear, but it’s vivid in shades of gray, in all its bland and mundane glory.

Steve feels the urge to cry out, scream for the boy to come back, but he can’t, throat tied up in the mere horror of loss.

Centuries have ticked by, crawling slowly past Steve with every second of the boy’s absence, and he sits there, feeling dangerously nauseous and needy, as if he’s Swiss cheese made of bullet holes only the boy can patch up. 

When he finally emerges from the back kitchen again, Steve is too relieved to notice the large mug of tea in one hand, and the plate of apple pie in the other. 

His eyes are glued to the boy’s face as he walks out from behind the counter, over to where Steve is sitting with a bashful look on his face, nervously glancing around when he meets Steve’s eyes for just a second.

“Here,” he says gently, voice cutting through all the meaningless noise and chatter of the world, like it’s the only thing worth hearing.

It is to Steve, at least.

Plate and mug placed down, the boy is just close enough for Steve to reach out and snatch up, trap him in his arms and never let him leave.

It’s a tempting thought, especially when the boy’s thin arms reach out to place the food on the table, exposing the tiny delicate waist wrapped up in a flour-cloudy black, half apron. 

Steve imagines gripping his waist, covering it with his large hands, pinning the poor thing to a wall or the bed by it, but he blinks those thoughts away, knowing this angel deserves more respect than for someone to be fantasizing about him in such an intrusive way.

A sick part of him whispers he can’t help himself. 

“Will that be all, sir?” 

Steve blinks at him, dazed at finally hearing a sentence in his slightly higher-pitched, fire crackling rough but soothing voice. 

Steve wants to hear it all the time.

“It’s Steve,” he blurts out, and the second it’s in the air, he knows he probably sounds like an entitled asshole, another common rude John, and he wants to slap himself as he hurriedly adds hopelessly, “please, call me Steve.”

The angel blinks, a small smile tugging at his cherry lips.

“He speaks,” the boy remarks with a sort of amused tone, somewhat bashful as he blinks at him through his dark lashes.

Steve would be blushing like a tomato if it wasn’t for the fact that his brain is churning five hundred cycles a minute, trying to process this boy’s sweet nature.

“Will that be all, Steve?” he inquires, tone much too patient and forgiving to be genuine. At least, Steve would believe so if pure authenticity wasn’t shining in his cloud-blue eyes. 

Steve nods stupidly, and the boy leaves again. 

He would’ve shouted for him to come back, all desperate-like in the movies and tv shows he’s seen on occasion, if he’d disappeared out of sight again. Thankfully, he busies himself with the broom, sweeping around, serving other tables and behind the counter with his doe-like colleague. 

Steve finds the boy glancing over at his table occasionally, lifting an eyebrow with an amused smile and continuing to glide across the floors, seemingly dancing around Steve’s table without ever approaching it. 

It’s maddening, the boy being somewhat of a violent tease, and Steve sits there, takes it with only a few twitches and spikes of jealousy. 

He barely registers himself slowly sipping down his warm beverage as the hours pass, the apple pie disappearing bit by bit. 

The tea warms his mouth, washes down the sweetness of the apples. It tastes identical to his mother’s, the closest he’s ever tried, but there’s something missing, a small yet impactful absence that’s just on the right side of bothersome yet trivial.

Steve barely notices the hours slip by life water through his fingers, and it’s not long before it’s only him and the boy in the bakery. 

He doesn’t notice the absence of people, or the lack of the once draining sunlight now long gone.

He only has eyes and attention for the little angel, who’s placing leftover pastries into trays and bringing them to the back, wiping up tables and pushing chairs back into place.

Steve watches him work with dangerous efficiency, each move as swift yet gentle as the wind. It’s mesmerizing, somewhat haunting.

Steve wants to decay in his own seat and watch him for the rest of his life.

It’s not long before the boy’s approaching Steve with a small, shy smile, hands undoing the apron around his waist and folding it up into a neat, black square. 

“Steve, I’m afraid it’s closing time,” he says softly as he places the apron on top of the counter and turns his attention towards the older man.

He blinks, feels something akin to devastation at the thought of going home and waking up to face another day without this boy. All it’s taken is four hours and Steve’s sure he’s gotta have him. 

“Are... are you sure?” Steve verbally scrambles and scrounges for words and excuses to stay. “I can help you close up or..or something?”

The boy breaks into a smile. “I’ve, umm, actually already got everything done, but thank you for offering.” He moves over closer to Steve’s table, grabs the plate and the empty mug. “Hope you enjoyed your pie?”

Steve blinks. “Oh! Oh yes, it was... really delicious.” His cheeks burn in the telltale ‘phenomenal save, Rogers.’

The boy smiles, and he stands there still for a moment, seemingly just studying Steve for a second, and that’s when it clicks.

“Fuck,” Steve blurts, and he’d crash his head through the window if the boy hadn’t lifted an eyebrow with a questioning, slightly amused smile. “Fuck, I haven’t even paid, I’m so sorry,” he’s stuffing his hands in his pockets in a blind attempt to retrieve his wallet, but the boy lets out a small giggle, shaking his head while he disappears to the back kitchen.

When he comes back out, Steve’s pulling out dollar bills like a mad man, ones and twenties and fifties alike.

“Steve, Steve,” he walks over as he continues to laugh, somehow finding hilarity in Steve’s flustered, embarrassed state. 

He probably doesn’t think much as he places his hands on top of Steve’s, but the blonde does, immediately ceasing all movements as his breath is caught in his throat, stopped by angel hands.

“Steve, believe it or not, we’ve never sold pie before,” the boy explains softly, like he’s speaking to a puppy that’s easily spooked, his tone lacking condensation but rather cautiousness. “That was a test pie, umm... meaning you don’t have to pay.”

“But the tea?” Steve can hear the strange inflection of strain even in his own voice, and he’s never felt more inadequate or stupid in his life.

The angel doesn’t seem to mind though, as his smile only widens. “That’s, uhh,” his cheeks flush something rosy, “that’s on the house.”

They stand there quietly for a moment, Steve trembling under the boy’s soft hands. They’re close, only a foot away at the most, and it’d be so easy to just lean in, Steve muses. Lean in and press his lips against—

“Are you okay?” the boy asks quietly, his smile going down a notch as a concerned look washes over his face, and Steve feels the pads of his soft fingers stroke against his skin. 

His heart nearly bursts at the tenderness. 

Steve pulls his hands away, takes in a shaky breath and ignores the fact he was seconds away from just jerking this boy into his arms and holding him till the world exploded into the galaxy. “I-I’m sorry, I know I’m taking up your time, I just..”

The boy frowns, looking a bit drawn back and shy for a moment before seeking to put his feelings aside and softly, hesitantly inquiring, “Are you lonely?” 

And it strikes such a personal yet obvious chord within Steve, something everyone notices about him except himself, though when it comes out of the boy’s lips, it can’t be anything other than the truth. 

Anxiously, somewhat fearfully and not at all as reverent as he should be, Steve blurts out, “Are you an angel?”

The boy’s silent for a moment, any second longer and Steve would be on his knees, but he bursts out laughing instead, eyes screwing up as he places a hand on his breast, laughing as if it’s the most insane, absurd diagnose to ever come his way. 

“Oh my gosh,” he giggles as he clearly tries to compose himself a moment after, sealing his lips as he vibrates with hilarity, eyes twinkling with amusement. “You’re a sweet talker, aren’t you?”

“It was a legitimate question,” Steve says too honestly and much too quickly, sending the boy into another fit of giggles.

Something warm blossoms in Steve’s heart. 

“Oh Steve,” and it might just be his imagination, but there’s something twinkling in the boy’s eyes as he looks at him, a strange sort of fondness maybe.

They stare at one another for a few seconds, cyan meeting cloud blue in the most strange, intimate way.

Steve blinks, looks at the time. 22:12.

“It’s late, I’m sorry,” Steve cringes at the thought of exhausting the poor angel, quickly moving past him as an idea strikes in his head.

He sticks the wallet back in his pocket, but keeps the money he’s already holding, stuffing it quickly through the opening of the tip jar.

“Woah!” the boy’s dashing over to the counter quickly, eyes the size of dining plates as he watches a fifty and a couple of twenties being pushed in to mingle with the few dollars and cents. “Steve, Steve, do you know what you’re doing?”

“Giving you a tip?” Steve lifts an eyebrow at him, smiling (though he’s sure it looks more like a wince) at the incredulity of the boy. It’s not that much, not to Steve anyway. He rarely buys anything. 

“That’s too much, silly,” and despite the teasing tone of his voice, there’s a dazed sort of disbelief as he watches what Steve guesses is the angel’s weekly pay being stuffed into the jar without a second thought. 

“It’s the least I can do,” Steve smiles a little, and his brain clicks, telling him he should leave soon before the boy tries to convince him to take his money back, which, by the look on his face, he seems very close to doing. 

The hardest part is tearing his eyes away, forcing his feet to take step after step that feels like it’s putting an ocean of distance between them. When he pushes open the door, the boy’s voice raises, tone almost frantic.

“Steve?”

The blonde turns, looks at the sweet boy surrounded by deep mahogany surroundings and lit golden by the bulbs. He’s so beautiful he makes him ache.

“Thank you,” the boy says softly, and Steve nearly melts at the clearly genuinely touched expression on his angel’s face.

“You’re welcome—“

“Bucky,” he interrupts, and Steve ponders the name, it’s adorable, sweet nature that seems to match the boy so perfectly, whilst said boy blushes to the highest degree of rosè. “I-I’m sorry, I just—my name’s B-Bucky, if you were, umm, wondering.”

“Bucky,” Steve says, and he smiles in an attempt to soothe the poor, stuttering angel. His name’s perfect, though Steve never expected anything different. 

“I’ll remember that, okay?” 

And Bucky blushes even more.


	2. chapter twø

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the positive response has been so unexpected and so welcome ❤️ you all are the absolute sweetest! i hope this next installment is enjoyed!

Over the next week, Steve’s cut visiting the shop into the days he can in his schedule, some days visiting in the morning, other days after work.

It quickly becomes his favorite place, the food and beverages on his tongue sweet but not nearly comparable to Bucky.

He gets to know him more, learns he’s a college student, twenty years old, his favorite color is red, his favorite pastry is pie, something he makes at the bakery and even at his home sometimes.

There are other things Steve learns, just by watching his angel. He’s always got a smile on his face, his innocence so glaringly obvious and bleeding into everything he says and does. A part of Steve wants to protect it, keep his obvious love and faith in people intact, but another part of him wants to crush it, decimate it to pieces every time someone comes and leers so openly and disgustingly at his angel, making advances at him bordering self-entitled harassment. 

Steve’s barely stopped himself from marching over a few times, grabbing whatever creature decided to hit on Bucky, his angel, but he’s kept back for the sake of politeness and decency; anyways, if Bucky accepted their advances, he’d easily do something stupid, but in the whole week Steve’s been visiting, he never has, simply keeping his smile friendly and his work ethic professional, gently declining invites to go out or grab a few drinks. 

What makes Steve feel better is that, after every time Bucky’s disposed of whatever poor soul tried to unsuccessfully bring him out, he glances over to where Steve is sitting, only for the quickest of moments before he’s ducking his head, blushing all the way down his neck. 

Steve can’t think of the possibility of being responsible for making his angel blush without feeling heart palpitations. 

 

••••••

 

“Alright, you need to tell me what’s going on.”

Steve’s panting a little, halfway through his water bottle when Sam finally asks. 

He’s got an eyebrow raised, curiosity crystal clear on his face, but there’s a smile too, one that puts Steve at the familiar sense of ease his best friend so frequently brought about. 

That was one of the things he loved about Sam, how simple and stress-free everything was. Given that he was a grief counselor down at the VA office, it was pretty much a requirement for his job, but Sam and he had known each other for years, after Steve got out of deployment. Seeing that he had never attended one of Sam’s sessions, instead making bonds with him on their similarly scheduled, early morning runs, his entire history wasn’t known by him, but they were comfortable enough with each other that conversations easily went past the usual small-talk of casual friends.

Still, Steve feels slightly wary about spilling the news about his little angel currently holed up in a study room; with how often Sam and his girlfriend tried to tie Steve up with a date himself, he didn’t know how extreme his best friend’s reaction to hearing that he met someone would be. 

“It’s...” Steve shrugs his large shoulders in a facade of false causality, though by the looks of Sam’s face and the intensity of curiosity cranking up on his bright, happy, (hopeful) face, Steve knows he can see right through him. “It’s not really anything..”

As light as the lie is, it feels intensely bitter on Steve’s tongue, as if the late night thoughts and early morning epiphanies and every single thought about Bucky in between is flashing before his conscience in a show of proof that it’s anything but “not really anything.” 

“C’mon, man!” Sam pokes him in the ribs, laughing as Steve frowns half-heartedly at him. “I’ve never seen you so distracted on a run in all my life! You nearly ran into a light pole back there, and you just smiled as you nearly got ran over crossing the street!”

“Sam,” Steve huffs dismissively, rubbing the back of his neck and taking a big gulp of water to avoid coming up with some sort of half-spluttered response.

“Steeeeve.” Sam grabs his shoulders and shakes him slow and languid as he whines petulantly, grinning when Steve fails at holding back a small smile. “You gotta tell me. I’m gonna die of curiosity and you’re gonna have to explain my death to Nat.” 

Steve sighs deeply, and knowing there’d be no easy way out, collapsed onto the grass, and propping his forearms on his bent knees, glanced up at Sam and waited until he made himself comfortable beside him. 

“I...” the blonde sighs, shaking his head. A butterfly comes alive in his stomach; he couldn’t believe he was about to admit this out loud. “I might have.. met someone.”

Steve looks over, glancing and gauging his best friend’s reaction. At first, he’s silent, making no emotion clear on his face. 

Then his chestnut eyes widen like saucers, the familiar bright smile returning to his face in all of its megawatt glory. 

“You kiddin’ me?” Sam says in clear disbelief, though he seems relieved all at once as he shoves Steve playfully. “Thought you were gonna die a lonely old man.”

“I might’ve been on the road to that but...” Steve shrugs.

It’s true, the prospect of being partnerless on his deathbed seemed like an all-too realistic ending to the sad, traumatizing story that was Steve Rogers’ life, and Sam wasn’t all too shy to point this out multiple times, but now, with the past two weeks under his belt, out the window was such an ending, a more peaceful, comforting prospect having replaced it.

“But really, I’m happy for you,” Sam smiles. “So where’d you meet this person?”

“Bakery,” Steve smiles, a touch proud of himself as Sam raises his eyebrows.

“Out of routine for you, Rogers,” he points out teasingly, huffing when Steve nudges him in mock-reprimand, cheeks pinking his fair Irish skin just the smallest bit to be noticeable. “What’d you do that day, too? Eat your lunch?”

“That’s a little too unrealistic.”

“Bullshit, lunch is the only thing that keeps me going sometimes,” Sam laughs. “That or Nat’s toffee cookies. Those are to die for.”

Steve nods, the mention of the dessert pulling the corners of his lips up at the memory of toffee cookies in the little display glass just a few days ago, Bucky standing behind it with a proud grin and a smear of flour on his cheek. 

It’s only a second before he becomes too engrossed in the thought much too quickly, the varying shades of pink Bucky’s lips turned whenever he came out of the oven-warmed back room, or when he pulled the soft tissue of it between his teeth shyly. He’s so sweet, adorable—

“Hey.” Sam nudges him.

Steve blushes, coughing. “Hey.”

Even without looking at him, Steve can feel his best friend’s eyes studying him, trying and perhaps succeeding at picking him apart.

“Oh hell nah.”

He glances at Sam who’s smiling like a shark, snow white teeth on full display as he begins laughing and shaking his head as if he’s had the most hilarious revelation. 

“What?” Steve tilts his head, pressing his lips together nervously while waiting for Sam to recover. 

Sam wheezes, slapping his hand on his knee and sucking in a breath, eyes twinkling with amusement and laughter still ringing clear in the air despite his forced silence. 

“You’re in love already, aren’t you?”

“What?” And it comes out too strained, slightly too high pitched to sound anything other than affirming, and Sam’s bursting into laughter again. “Sam..I...” his cheeks burn all the way down his neck and his chest. “Sam, don’t be ridiculous.”

“I ain’t being ridiculous!” Sam protests, snickering before placing a hand on Steve’s shoulder. “But if you wanna lie to yourself,” he adds, tone slightly more serious though the shade of laughter colors his eyes warm and his hand firm, “and pretend that you ain’t thinkin’ of daisy fields and unicorns whenever this person pops into your mind, I’ll kindly keep quiet and play along.”

Steve can’t help but feel a tug of a smile. Sam always did have a way of making fun of him without hurting his feelings, and his way around words was undeniably comforting and almost familial. 

“Don’t tell Nat, please,” he says softly. “I don’t know if I’m ready to be interrogated.”

“I won’t tell her, but y’know her, always has a way of knowing things without having to hear about them first,” Sam shrugs, before patting Steve’s shoulder firmly and standing up with a grunt, offering his hand to Steve.

“C’mon, let’s get lunch.”

Steve quirks an eyebrow with a smile, grabbing Sam’s hand and allowing himself to be pulled up from the grass.

“I don’t do lunch.”

“Shut up.”

 

••••••

 

Steve tries not to stay too long every time he passes by the bakery, though it happens more frequently than not. He doesn’t want to seem weird or make anyone (Bucky) uncomfortable, though sometimes, the time he’d been once so meticulously scrutinizing slips by faster than he can process. 

Today, or should he say, tonight, seems to be one of those nights.

Bucky’s walking around the small shops, picking up stray cups and plates, wiping down tables. 

Steve’s offered to help before, but was quickly shot down by a blinding smile and a kind decline, Bucky urging him to enjoy his usual apple pie with a small wink that nearly drove Steve off the brink of sanity, or more accurately, what remained of it.

They’ve both gotten more comfortable with one another, easily falling into conversations when the bakery’s closed and they’re all alone. Steve’s offered to leave, on the dot of every closing time, and as wounding as it is to his heart, he offers it easily and encouragingly, because he’s still a gentleman and Bucky comes first, damn it, but his angel’s shaken his head enthusiastically every time, blushing whenever he offers Steve the option to stay.

Tonight, however, Steve’s silent, lost in his own mind as he watches Bucky clean up, his artist’s mind studying every angle, every line of his perfect body. 

Right away, Bucky seemed to have picked up on the fact that the blonde didn’t say much when there was no need, and, thankfully, he doesn’t seem uncomfortable in the silence either. 

On the flip side of the coin, he isn’t afraid to break it either.

“Steve?”

He looks up, dragging his gaze from Bucky’s delicate wrists to his eyes, humming in reply. 

“Do you..umm.. are you..” the cherry red that flushes his cheeks is adorably telling of his hesitance. 

Out of all of the small moments they’ve stolen, the tentative questions they asked one another, Bucky’s never seem as shy as he is right now, seeming to refuse even looking the older man in the eye. 

Steve waits patiently, heart in his throat and mind screaming to find a way to somehow comfort his poor boy. 

When the question finally slips off of Bucky’s tongue, it’s so soft and quiet that Steve barely hears it. 

“Are you seeing.. someone?”

Steve’s heartbeat picks up slightly. 

For all the things they’ve talked about, they’ve never breached the topic of relationships.

It takes a moment to find his usage of English again before he answers.

“No,” he says honestly, smiling a little at the surprised look on his angel’s face. “Believe it or not, I’ve only ever been in a couple.”

“But you’re so—“ Bucky cuts himself off, a little, choked off noise coming high pitched in his throat. 

Steve wonders why he seems so shy at this moment, much more than usual, and a part of him hopes he makes the younger boy nervous, in the same way Bucky turns his own insides out.

Bucky glances at Steve, clears his throat, “So... nobody?” 

The blonde nods, smiling a little when Bucky moves over to the counter, sitting down. 

“Are you in a relationship?” It’s tentative and hesitant, but Steve knows it’s the best time to ask, no matter how upset the answer might make him. “I’ve seen you turn down guys and girls left and right.”

Bucky blushes. “They’re..umm.. they’re pretty, but... I think I’ve been ruined.”

Steve lifts an eyebrow, tilts his head, and Bucky looks away bashfully, playing with his long, thin fingers and the small silver rings he always wears on his left hand. And there’s something about Bucky sitting there, face open and sweet, the neon lights from the city bathing half of his face in blue and the other half bathed in the golden light of the bakery, legs spread and feet dangling in his black hightops above the mahogany floors. 

There’s something magnetic about it, there always is but it’s stronger now, practically possessing Steve and dragging him out of his chair, forcing him to walk over and be closer to his angel. 

He comes so close he’s nearly between Bucky’s open knees when he stops, and his angel finally looks up, cloud blue eyes locking with Steve and nearly making him breathless with their glacier beauty.

“Ruined?” Steve breathes in repetition, like a hopeful prayer. 

Long lashes blink like molasses slipping down a tree, his words hesitantly leaving his cherry lips. “Can’t settle for anyone once I’ve seen the prettiest, can I?” 

It makes Steve smile, hopefulness catching in his chest like a caged butterfly. “Must’ve been a hard life, being ruined from the first time you looked in the mirror.”

The lighthearted remark makes Bucky burst into the largest, most infectious smile, a small chuckle leaving his throat as he ducks his head down bashfully to look at his shoes. 

The butterflies in his chest multiply, his heartbeat picking up significantly, almost annoyingly so, though from the looks of Bucky keeping his eyes locked on his black shoes and the telling way his feet nudge one another in a nervous rhythm, Steve knows he feels the same. 

They’re both silent for a little, Steve watching his angel carefully, grasping desperately for his own words while the younger seems to battle for his own.

Eventually, Bucky glances up at the blonde, eyes searching, seeming to toss every nerve and pigment vessel aside to get to his soul. There’s something stripping, the way Bucky always looks at him, the feeling of vulnerability so sharp it frightens and intrigues the older man down to the core.

What does Bucky see in him?

“Steve.”

The blonde, unable to produce any sounds relatively close to words, blinks, shifts on his feet, subconsciously stepping back a little and shriveling under the angel’s sharp scrutiny. 

If Bucky had seen even half of the things he’s done...

The feeling of unworthiness washes over him like a wave, sudden and breathtakingly powerful, all-consuming and destroying the delicate sandcastle that is his confidence. 

“I.. I’m s—“

Bucky’s brow furrows. “Steve?”

His feet are moving by their own accord, taking step after step backwards. He barely notices his hands shaking, his mouth spilling sentences of nonsensical, half words as his body tries to distance itself away from Bucky, despite the sharp screaming in his brain.

The desire to protect his angel is deeper than ever, the ugly monster inside Steve rousing silently in his brain and stabbing its sharp claws into his brain.

Thirteen. Anastasia Jones. Eighteen. Bedlam. It all comes rushing back in its violent, shameful recollection, pointing to the same conclusion: 

Unworthiness. 

He feels the tears in his eyes before he feels the ones streaking his left cheek. 

“Steve,” Bucky says, the words leaving his soft lips even softer, taking stride after stride after the older. 

The wall suddenly pressing against his back shortens his throat, his breath along with it, claustrophobia closing in with each step Bucky takes toward him.

His lips open, but Steve hears nothing, his pleading words drowning out with their own pathetic misery. 

The loud ringing is cut by Bucky’s gentle whisper.

“Hey...hey, Steve, it’s okay.”

He flinches when the younger touches his cheek. 

“You’re okay, sweetheart,” his voice is so soft, steady and sure, thumb pressing and stroking his cheek. Steve sees him move forward and wrap his arms around him before he feels it. 

His whole world burns up, Bucky’s touch hotter than mercury but more soothing than the stars, his skinny arms locking Steve in a frozen place, the blonde barely daring to even think about drawing a breath as Bucky hands press against his body, slowly wandering around. 

It’s in Bucky’s arms that suddenly, the whole world seems to fall away, all of the outer noise, worries, problems dropping like a heavy curtain, revealing the most simple solution. 

It’s in Bucky’s arms that Steve only has one answer to wiping his memories, atoning for his sins, cleansing his mind. 

Stiffness and tension, however unintentional, are clearly taken the wrong way, as all too soon, Steve feels Bucky slowly unwinding his arms from him, the lack of his own response clearly giving the boy second thoughts about being so generous and sweet with his stardust touches.

Steve panics, feels the safety being slowly pulled away from him like a blanket, threatening to leave him naked and crying in the dark. He quickly wraps his arms around Bucky, probably crushing the poor angel with the sudden fervor and enthusiasm, leaning down and burying his face in his neck. 

A part of him would blush for shame, the nearly violent way he’s reduced to the simple need of touch, how unnecessarily rough he’s grabbed Bucky and pressed him against his body (his mother didn’t raise a savage, thank you very much), but he needs it, needs to feel his angel like he needs air. 

“Aww, Stevie,” Bucky says breathlessly, a little chuckle escaping as he sweetly returns the embrace gracefully, hands barely touching but more so sliding, skimming, exploring.

It’s in Bucky’s arms that Steve learns to love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for reading! love you all the most ❤️
> 
> please don’t be afraid to leave kudos/comments :) it really helps motivate me to write more!


	3. chapter threē

9:45 and Steve’s already had two panic attacks. 

He’s shaking, vibrating non-stop, fingers twitchy and feet tapping whenever they get the chance.

This is so out of routine, veering from his usual schedule so drastically it’s almost laughable, bringing about anxiety and uncertainty and the strange, tight knots of worry in his stomach. 

Most of his clothes are strewn across his bedroom floor, thumb being torn into a bloody mess between his teeth while he shakes and shakes.

He ends up throwing a grey, cotton t-shirt on, soft and familiar against his skin, his dark black jeans a little loose around his waist ever since summer but staying on enough to warrant its wear-factor. The dark chocolate leather jacket he’d thrown on, then off, then on about twenty times is put on, it’s comfortable, familiar weight barely doing anything to calm his raging heart like it normally did. 

When he runs his hands through his hair, brushing his teeth until his gums bleed, he stares at his hollow face in the mirror, dark bags under his eyes. His lack of sleep is laughing at him in all of its anxious, painful glory, whispering he’s not good enough, not handsome enough, not immaculate enough. 

It’s nearly overwhelming enough to make him stop all he’s doing, call off the whole thing and just never leave his apartment. Ever again. Maybe that’ll stop the shakes and the feeling of bile rising in his throat. 

The only thing that keeps him going are the haunting icy eyes burned into his brain, the gentle soul calling to him like a beam of sunlight in his veil of darkness. 

Maybe it’s only been a few weeks and it’s as ridiculous as it sounds, but Steve’s a moth drawn to light in this situation, a magnet with an undeniable, natural pull towards his angel, his sweetheart, his Bucky, and Steve would fight through all hell and heaven (and apparently even himself, if the past night and morning was anything to go by) to see him.

By the time he gets to the cafe, he’s shaking ten times worse, his teeth nearly chattering in his jaw. 

They’d both agreed beforehand that the cafe was probably the best place to meet, just for a cup of coffee; though now, with Steve’s panic-filled morning, being in public was just about the last thing he wanted at the moment. 

A part of him wants to cry when he sees Bucky, standing a few feet from the entrance with his hands in the pockets of his light blue jeans.

He smiles wide when he sees Steve, but as the older man gets closer, desperation fueling his steps, the smile slowly slips off his face. 

It’s not dramatic to say that Steve collapses in the smaller man’s arms the moment he’s only inches away from him, all of the struggle and fight leaving his body as quickly as a flame blown out. 

“Steve?” The worry in his voice is so palpable, the way he immediately gathers as much of his large body as he can into his arms, tender in its intent and tight in his nerves. “Hey... are you okay?”

Bucky splays a hand on the blonde’s broad chest, pushing him back just the smallest bit to look into his eyes, and Steve nearly whines in protest, at the loss of even just the smallest contact. 

“Steve, you—“ he huffs, seeming incredulous and concerned all at once, a little furrow between his brow, the deeply-etched wonder in his eyes twisted in the worst way. He lifts his hand, already opening his mouth to ask permission, but Steve’s already given it from day one, and he snatches his angel’s delicate hand in his own, pressing it against his cheek, movements jerky and unnecessarily rough.

Bucky blinks in muted surprise, though to his credit, he gets over it rather quickly, gently stroking Steve’s cheek with the pad of his thumb. 

“Steve, you look like hell,” he says softly. 

Steve’s sure he feels his spirit snap in two, and he recoils rather quickly, embarrassment flooding him like a dam broken. 

Bucky’s eyes widen, and he shakes his head quickly, “Steve, no! That’s not what I mean, you’re—you just look tired,” he mends quickly, taking the few steps forward Steve took back, grabbing his hands firmly and placing the same tentative hand on his cheek. “C’mon,” he says gently. “Let’s get you some tea, okay?”

 

•••••

 

Two hours pass like a bolt of lightening, and Steve’s sure he’s never been more in love. 

Bucky is gentle with Steve, a rare course of action directed towards a man of his stature and size. He’d already been stereotyped as a jock, a mindless hunk of muscles with few feelings that involved anything other than beer pong or sports; but in reality, Steve’s the polar opposite, so far from the stoicism and blankness everyone seemed to pin him down for. 

Bucky doesn’t see it though; how could he? With the sickeningly sweet-like delicacy he handles Steve’s exhaustion, his soft yet unyielding command for Steve to take in the black-tea caffeine and balance out his nerves and anxiety by bringing him out of the crowded cafe and seating them on an empty park bench so well-thought out and painfully considerate that Steve can’t quite wrap his head around how this angel even exists. 

By now, the shaking in his hands has disappeared, the lump in his throat dissolved into ease. Bucky lets him hold his hand for the entirety of their time together, every once in a while stroking it with his thumb and smiling brighter than the sun. 

 

••••••

 

Strange.

It’s the first word that Bucky would describe Steve with, in a way that was neither malicious nor negative.

He’s strange in the way he’s awfully quiet, with his thousand yard stare and his intense blue eyes that seem to hold a thousand screams. 

He’s strange in the way he’s so soft-spoken, like he has nothing to say and the things he says aren’t worth hearing. 

He’s strange in the way he’ll seem so intensely observant one moment, his eyes tracking and following every little movement around him and flinching at every sound, and the next moment he’ll seem lost in his own head, mind traveling a hundred different tracks at a light year per second. 

He’s strange in the way he’s so devastatingly beautiful, like an artist designed him on paper or carved him out of marble to be nothing less than perfect, down to the length of his dark eyelashes to the soft pout of his lips to his large, calloused hands. 

Even now, as Bucky stares at him in the sunlight does he find not a hint of imperfection, no blemish, and disfiguration in sight. 

“No one is perfect,” his mother’s words ring clearly in his head, and Bucky knows this; he’d found this to be true with just about everyone.

Until Steve Rogers waltzed into his life. 

His burning anxiety and constant on-edge tendencies aren’t unnoticed, however. Bucky’s caught onto them from day one, how jumpy and nervous Steve became from time to time. Even that morning, when Steve all but had a muted, undoubtedly toned-down panic attack in his arms, Bucky couldn’t bring himself to see any flaw in Steve, his crippled disposition simply being seen as a state of mind. 

It only hurts him to think of Steve suffering with it alone, with no one to hold him or talk him down.

It doesn’t take long for Bucky to calm him, which he’s thankful for. He stubbornly holds onto Steve’s hand, fighting the urge to press kisses against each knuckle and digit.

“I’m so sorry about this.”

When Steve had apologized an hour or two after calming down, the shame in his eyes shining brighter than a lighthouse and his face the color of a barely washed-out cherry, Bucky’s sure he’s never wanted anything more desperately than to take away his clear embarrassment at that moment.

“Stevie, it’s okay,” he insists firmly, holding the blonde’s hand tighter. “You’ve done nothing wrong.”

It shouldn’t be so endearing to see a twenty-nine year old avert his eyes and shrug, but there’s something so easy about feeling things when it involves Steve.

From the moment Bucky saw him, he felt something come alive in his chest and it’s been beating ever since; there’s nothing he’s learned about Steve that’s dampened the desire, and though his knowledge of the older man was extremely limited, with how quiet he was, Bucky was sure there was just about nothing that could douse out the fire that Steve lit. 

With Steve in the equation, feeling just made sense.

“You’re...you’re so sweet, Bucky,” the blonde man smiles, and the younger man wants to just reach out and press kisses all over his face. 

Two weeks in and Steve Rogers already has his heart.

 

•••••••

 

It’s only days after that they schedule their second date. 

Time seems to melt away into nothing when Steve’s with Bucky, putting in quarters of his day repeatedly like coins into a bottomless meter. Every morning when he wakes, he finally rises with a smile instead of a frown, hopefulness for happiness quickly seeping into the colourless canvas that was his life before his angel.

Two dates become three and four, until the clamped-up tension and anxiety fades into a manageable nervousness in the forms of flying creatures in his throat and his stomach. They haven’t kissed yet, only holding hands or sharing bone-breaking hugs; as much as it shouldn’t bother Steve, words that could so quickly dig his grave like “love” and “boyfriend” are found more often than not on the tip of his tongue. It’s only when the light shines in Bucky’s eyes in a particular way that Steve thinks he’s the ocean, when the moon illuminates his skin that he thinks Bucky is the universe. In between all those fragile, fleeting seconds, Bucky is his entire existence.

How couldn’t he be in love with him?

“Steve.” 

The blonde blinks away his thoughts, quickly turning to find Bucky looking at him with an amused smile.

“Huh?”

“It’s getting late, silly,” he says softly, and Steve barely holds back on the desire to slap himself upside the face as he glances at his watch. It’s beyond late, nearly a whole hour after closing time. 

“Sorry,” he apologizes, rubbing the back of his neck as an undeniable heat colors his cheeks some sort of splotchy, fire red as he stands up, grabbing his jacket. 

The bakery is spotless as he looks around, everything in order from top to bottom and not a single crumb in sight. 

“It’s okay,” Bucky smiles, pulling his own hoodie over his head. “I like the company.”

Steve smiles and grabs his hand gingerly as they walk to the door, grasping just tight enough that he wouldn’t be shaken off with the smallest movement but gentle enough to let go if Bucky signaled the desire. However, as always, his angel just smiles at him, and squeezes his large hand in tandem.

There’s something about walking to the subway together, late at night and hand in hand that Steve’s fallen in love with. Of course, there are moments when he overthinks, when his hands become clammy and sweaty and shaky, the prospect of Bucky letting go so palpable and realistic that it only serves in distressing Steve further and forcing him to brace for the seemingly inevitable impact of Bucky realizing how disgusting and fragile Steve becomes when he overthinks; however, not once has Bucky ever let go of his hand, if anything, he’s only grown accustomed to holding on tighter when he feels Steve tense up nervously. 

All too soon, they find themselves at the underground subway, waiting for the train scheduled to arrive in just minutes. This is the part that Steve hates the most, separating from his angel is probably the only one thing he dislikes about them spending time with one another, as it became harder to do the more they were together. 

“Can I see you soon?” Steve always asks, phrasing the question in light of leaving open enough room for Bucky to decline without feeling uncomfortably outright. But he has to ask, for his own sanity; he misses Bucky unbearably much already.

“Yes, please,” his angel smiles, making Steve melt as he steps into his space and gathers his boy into his arms.

 

•••••

 

“Out with your boyfriend again?”

“Shuddup, Rumlow,” Bucky says softly, kicking off his shoes as he throws his keys into the small bowl by the door, cheeks running red at the thought of Steve. 

He just couldn’t get over how thoughtful and sweet the older man was; with a personality like his and a face like marble carved personally by the gods, Bucky was sure he was just joining the millions of people who were probably already in love with Steve. 

“C’mon, you barely tell us about him!” Rumlow walks over to the front door where Bucky’s hanging his jacket on the coat rack, beer in hand as he grabs his arm and pulls him over to the couch. “I wanna hear the details, Barnes. Name, pictures, address, social security, proof of income—“

“Rums!” Bucky laughs as he’s shoved onto the couch, his flat-mate plopping down unceremoniously on the couch beside him with a large, wolf-like smile. “It’s not even—“

“What, serious?” a deep voice interrupts from just behind Bucky, lips so close to the shell of his ear it makes him shiver. 

“Rollins,” Bucky huffs, turning and glaring at the tall man, pretending his heart rate hadn’t picked up by a thousand beats per minute. 

Rollins had a way of sneaking up on you without your notice; for a 6”3, broadly-built guy, he was undeniably stealthy, his nature perhaps being born from his natural liking for silence and his own rather non-verbal character. 

Rumlow, on the other hand, taller than Bucky but just barely, hair spiked up and hazel eyes always shining with trouble, had no trouble making enough noise for the both of them. 

“C’mon!” Rumlow nearly shouts into Bucky’s ear. “Tell us. Who’s your mysterious boyfriend?”

“Geez, Rumlow!” Bucky tries not to blush at the mere thought of Steve, but what can he say? The guys gives him enough butterflies in his stomach to fill a whole museum. 

“Wow, are you blushing, Barnes?” Rumlow teases, mind pausing as seriousness suddenly washes over his face. “What, he sleep with you already?” 

“What? Rums, no!” Bucky knows he’s burning brighter at the thought, Steve’s large arms curled around him, skin against skin. 

Rumlow seems to find a little relief, the seriousness Bucky was so unaccustomed to seeing on his usually mischievous face slipping away. “Then tell us about him. If he’s on your mind this much, you’ve gotta— I don’t know, be in love with him already or something.”

“He is,” Rollins observes, and Bucky hates how intuitive he is, how he seems to know everything before anyone else did. The oldest of the three slips to sit on the couch to the right of Bucky, facing him with a knee bent and resting on the cushions and the other dangling off, effectively trapping him on the accursed piece of furniture that was never meant to hold all of them at once. 

It’s natural and necessary to fit them all on the tiny couch, to slip between Rollins open legs and lean back into his broad chest, the taller man’s arm sneaking around to rest over his stomach. 

They all worked jobs and it was only a couple of nights a week they all had off together, so maybe Bucky did feel a little bad that he was pretty late. However, a little lost time wasn’t bothering any of them, if Rumlow’s peace offering of the pizza box off the nearby table was anything to go by. 

“What’s the occasion?” Bucky lifts his eyebrow, though he can’t deny the way his stomach growls at the sight of melted cheese and greasy pepperoni they found to be a sort of a rare delicacy in their apartment. 

“Felt like splurging,” Rumlow shrugs, frowning when Bucky grabs a small slice. “Get two, squirt.”

With just the three of them, they tried to stay afloat, but rent was always a little tight. Despite the fact that getting another person would help lift the burden a little, they always made it work, the three of them together, knowing if someone else was invited in, their whole spiritual force of emotions and personal camaraderie could be compromised. And as annoying as the two sometimes could be, Bucky couldn’t pretend that there wasn’t something undeniably comforting about them, ‘older brother’ kind of vibes always washing over Bucky when he got with them; their protectiveness over him always helped, too, the two of them never having steered him wrong in helping him choose certain friends or people to keep around or cut out of his life.

Sure, Rumlow’s tendency to let the apartment get a little messy when he was stressed was a little frustrating at times, and Rollins’ insomnia and particular liking for slipping out at random times of the day with no explanation, rhyme, or reason was a bit concerning, but Bucky couldn’t help but love the both of them deeply. 

“Now,” Rumlow leans over, picking up Bucky’s feet and dropping them into his lap to help them all settle into the couch as best as they could, “c’mon, Bucky, tell us about your new guy.”

Bucky shrugs, his shyness causing his eyes to avert and throat to close up automatically, determined to hide his bone deep infatuation with Steve as well as possible. 

Fingers tap against his ribcage almost delicately. 

For a guy with a million secrets just hidden behind his silent eyes, Rollin’s voice is gentle, pleading for the truth. “Bucky..”

He sighs. 

“He’s...tall,” the youngest brunette starts small, hoping to impart a few vague details and be left alone. “And pretty quiet.”

The familiar crease of curiosity and concern between Rumlow’s eyebrows appears, and not a second after Bucky finishes his sentence is he interrupting. “This the part where you say it’s fuckin’ Rollins?”

“What, no!” Bucky nearly screams, practically feeling the man behind him roll his jade eyes. 

“Thanks, baby,” he drawls sarcastically.

“I—I didn’t mean it like that,” Bucky splutters before shaking his head furiously. “You guys, I swear, you’re the stupidest—“

“Sorry, sorry, go on,” Rumlow prompts, deflating a little with a strange look on his face. “Tall, quiet...”

“I met him a few weeks back. Not sure exactly what he does, but I think he said something about being an architect designer.” Bucky takes another bite of pizza just to stall, instinctively curling back into Rollins when his eyes briefly meet Rumlow’s. They’re shining and intense, as if he’s hanging onto every word that comes out of Bucky’s mouth. 

“Is he handsome?” Rumlow asks lowly, almost like a reluctant mumble.

“He’s beautiful,” Bucky says, probably too quickly, but with the intense blue and honey-spun hair flashing in his mind, the word suddenly seems too empty and void to describe the walking miracle that was Steve Rogers. “Devastatingly beautiful,” he amends quietly, almost to himself though he’s sure his roommates can read him loud and clear.

A pause overtakes the small apartment for a moment, Rumlow staring off into the distance as if he’s pondering, Rollins simply shifting slightly more into the couch as Bucky begins munching away at his pizza, hoping against hope that they’re satisfied with the information.

That hope is shot down when Rollins asks the question Bucky had secretly been dreading. “How old is he?”

The lack of an immediate response catches Rumlow’s attention, who looks over after a few beats of silence. 

Bucky knew Steve’s age would be brought up, sooner or later, and though it didn’t exactly bother him in any way, he knew his best friends probably wouldn’t share the same sentiment. 

Nine years practically sounded like a lifetime when it was comparative. 

“Bucky?”

Bucky bites his lip. 

“29,” he whispers so quietly he can barely hear it himself.

Rumlow looks like he winces. “Come again?”

“29,” Rollins repeats louder, in a deliberately slow drawl.

“Bucky!” Rumlow sits up and shoves the younger’s shoulder, causing him to let out an undignified yelp. The look on his face is a cross between disbelief and concern. “What kinda sugar daddy—“

“Brock!” Bucky shouts, voice high-strung and face burning with the implication. “What the fuck, no—!”

“Hey,” Rollins cuts in, voice barely risen but shutting the two younger down quickly. Rumlow looks close to fuming, lips pressed in a tight line and Bucky feels unexplainable tears in his eyes. 

Rollin’s grabs his attention, however, grasping the younger’s chin and coaxing him to look him in the eye. 

Bucky’s eyes automatically fixate on the older’s left emerald eye; despite the unseeing, damaged state of it, there’s a familiar, comforting tenderness in it.

“I’m all for you dating who you want, you know that. We just care about you, and...well,” Rollins sighs deeply, contemplating his words for a moment. “29 is...it’s considerably older.”

“I know,” Bucky admits quietly, trying to forget the hazel eyes behind him currently burning holes into the back of his head. “But there’s nothing to be worried about, I swear. Steve’s the sweetest person I’ve ever met.”

“Yeah, well, you’re the sweetest person we’ve ever met,” Rumlow pipes up behind him, arms crossed. “And also one of the most delicate, forgiving, trusting persons ever.“

“Are you saying you don’t trust my judgement?” Bucky bites out, though it hurts when Rumlow’s eyes drop to the ground and he refuses to answer. 

“Of course we do.” Rollins sighs, frowning when Bucky raises his forearm to his eyes and wipes them hastily. Crying is something Bucky is easily ashamed about, especially because it happened more often than not at the drop of a hat. 

“Hey,” Rollins’ hand rubs at his ribs soothingly. “It’s okay. Just promise me you’ll let us meet him sometime, okay?” 

“‘kay,” Bucky agrees easily, curling up into the older man miserably and trying to hold tears back when he feels Rumlow’s weight lift from the couch and the door close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry if this was super long! i meant to break it up into two chapters buuuuut figured since it was already written, i might as well upload for you all :)
> 
> thank you so much for reading ❤️ please don’t be afraid to leave a comment or kudos! it helps me write happy ^^

**Author's Note:**

> please tell me if this was okay. i haven’t written in so long and on top of that, i’ve never written for a stucky audience so please bear with me. 
> 
> thank you so much for reading ❤️


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